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That’s what I tell myself as I run my hand over the cold space beside me.

However, when my gaze drifts to the bedside table, I notice the top drawer hanging open. My disappointment is quickly replaced by utter embarrassment.

He didn’t.

I crawl over to his side of the bed for a closer look and, sure enough, there they are. My toys. All of them. On full fucking display.

I slap a hand over my forehead and fall backward onto the bed.

Why would he go through my things? And more importantly, why would he leave the drawer open? If he wanted to keep his snooping a secret, he failed miserably by leaving this particular drawer open.

Unless he’s trying to tell me something.

Wait. Did we use any of them last night?

I stare at the ceiling, desperately trying to piece together everything that happened after we fell into bed together. It’s all a blur. I was so high on him—on us—that I honestly can’t remember.

I mean, we must have. That’s the only reasonable explanation. Because the alternative is that Milo invaded my privacy and went snooping through my stuff. And if that’s what happened, was there something in particular he was looking for?

That doesn’t sound like the Milo I know. He was always so respectful.

My forehead creases as another, far more uncomfortable thought creeps in.

Maybe that’s the problem. I keep looking for the boy I knew ten years ago in the man I’ve been hooking up with. The truth is, I have no idea who Milo Fletcher is anymore. And despite all my intentions to ask him about his life, I’ve failed spectacularly at that too.

It’s almost like I don’t want to know. I just… I just want to pretend we’re still us. The same Max and Milo we were before everything went to shit. Because the second I let reality into this little bubble we’ve created, I’m terrified it’ll burst. Or worse, I won’t like what I see.

I swear I’m my own worst enemy sometimes. This so-called bubble I’m so intent on protecting is going to pop anyway. Three days from now, I’ll be going home. And Milo will remain here in Fairhope.

It’s not like I can ask him to come with me. Can I?

I snatch the pillow from beside me, bury my face in it, and scream.

“ARGH!”

Okay. I’m not spiraling. Not yet.

Last night was wonderful. That’s all I need it to be. So why can’t I just enjoy it for what it was instead of searching for reasons to tarnish the memory?

I repeat that mantra as I drag myself out of bed, take a shower, and get dressed. By the time I make it downstairs for breakfast, I’ve almost convinced myself that all is hunky-fucking-dory in my world.

Well, almost.

The dining room is busier than I expected, with most of the tables already occupied. I barely make it through the doorway before an older woman near the buffet catches my eye and waves.

“Wonderful reading last night, Ms. Usher.”

“Thank you.” I smile, only to have another guest call out from a table nearby.

“I bought your book before bed. I’m already three chapters in and I’m loving it!”

“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me before coffee.” I grin.

A few people laugh, and I keep smiling as I make my way toward the breakfast spread, returning waves and accepting compliments from guests who apparently enjoyed themselves enough last night to stick around this morning.

It should feel good. It does feel good.

After all, wasn’t that the whole point of the reading? To keep Mrs. Trott from losing all her guests and having the Alder B&B permanently rebranded as the Murder Inn?